‘Wheels’ was an anthology of new verse appearing between 1916 and 1921, edited by Edith Sitwell, and including work by herself and her two brothers.
It was clearly meant to be topical, and this was the 1917 issue, with neither contributors nor readers able to take their mind off the war for long, and three of the poets were only in their twentieth year. This does, however, somewhat limit the quality of the work - the poets seem more interesting than the poetry.
Edith herself, at thirty, has not yet reached her full stride; she would gain a reputation as a most dependable performer, never inspiring, but always giving good value (she'd have made a good Laureate), and it was cruel of her critics to sneer at her as a poseur.
Her brother Osbert seems disappointingly conventional here, though he does allow himself to kick free with one short poem ‘The Lament of the Mole Catcher’ that is satisfyingly unlike anything else, anywhere, ever - of which I will quote half:

For forty years I've sought to slay
The small, the dumb, the blind,
But now the Lord has made me pay,
And I am like their kind.
I cannot see or lane or hill,
Or flower or bird or moon;
Lest life shall lay me lower still,
O Lord — come take it soon.'
Two famous names from the world far beyond poetry - Nancy Cunard and Iris Tree - may have paid the price for this by not being sufficiently absorbed in their craft to generate anything either quotable or memorable. (Cunard writes verse that cannot be described as poetry.) The same could be said of Edith’s younger brother Sacheverell, a lifelong dilettante, but only allowed one small poem in this collection. He was, of course, one of the 20-year olds, and another one, Victor Perowne, earns a salute but not a cheer.
The third, Edward Wyndham Tennant (of the future Glenconner tribe that came to grief after tempting fate so outrageously) might have lived on to become a major poet, but the Somme had claimed him by the time he wrote:
How shall I tell you of the freedom of the Downs?
You who love the dusty life and durance of great towns,
And think the only flowers that please embroider ladies' gowns,
Finally, Edith’s old governess, Helen Rootham, gives us a trio of prose-poems translated from Rimbaud - not a literary form that appeals in my case. Still it is touching to think of Helen providing lifelong companionship for Edith, who had been so scarred by her eccentric and unloving parents.